Black
by Tom O'Bedlam
Summary: A tribute to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black.


Standard disclaimers apply; I don't own any of the characters, or the situation or anything at all. I just thought it would be nice to see how the Order reacted to Sirius's death.

He's gone. I find it hard to realize that. Intellectually I understand, of course, and I'm caught up in all the business to do with his death, but I still find myself expecting to be greeting by his boundless energy and reckless ideas when I come to Grimmauld Place. And I'm not the only one either. I see Tonks come in, and pause to wait for her dog-like cousin bound downstairs to jump on her, then remember and move quickly to the kitchen, brushing tears away. I see the sparkle in Dumbledore's eye's dim, just a little, when he enters the living room and sees only me. I see Molly's fierce defense of his actions, now that he's gone and can't hurt her children. I see the children, horrified at it all, not quite sure if they believe it yet. I see Harry, too, who realizes too soon and too much, and looks as though someone cut his soul out. Even Severus Snape looks a little lost, sometimes, without his old nemesis.

But mostly I see Lupin. Remus Lupin, ghosting around the old Black mansion in that gentle way of his. He's not lost, like the others are. He smiles gently at all of them, provides a shoulder for them to cry on, a ear to listen. He hasn't cried. I think his grief is too deep for tears, or anger, or the many outlets other people can use. You can see it in his eyes, if you look. It's there in his clear amber eyes, the grief that can't be spoken, or even realized. Young Harry would hate him for it, claiming Lupin didn't love Sirius enough to mourn for him, and if Lupin heard that, he'd just smile. He does mourn, but, like me, can't quite bring himself to realize. And when he does realize, it brings such a loss of meaning to everything that crying is impossible. You just keep going. You do what needs to be done, and when there is nothing to do, you slump down and let your misery oppress your mind until you're needed again. Lupin, in the evenings, sits in front of the fire with a cup of tea at his elbow, and watches the wood burn. I know that feeling. You watch the monotonous flickering and see other things, events past, that which you need. When I watch Lupin in the evening, his quiet fire is covered with my memories of the past few months, when Sirius and Lupin sat there and talked and laughed, and the heir to the Black clowned as he had as a child. And I remember even older evenings by this very same fire, when large, elegant gatherings of cold, beautiful people stood around this room, planning the fate of their world and five little children, three girls and two boys, scampered around their ankles, laughing and pushing each other, but always careful never to disturb the adults. And emptier evenings from those same days, when the adults chose another room to use, and the Black cousins sat around this one pretending to be very grown up. Dark passionate Bellatrix would hex the younger ones when they talked out of turn, and Sirius would slouch in his chair, but still play along, because if he did this now, Bella and Andra would play Quidditch with him later, and tiny porcelain Narcissa would sit up very straight, as if to make up for her unruly cousin, already a little model of the society belle she was going to be, and Regulus and Andromeda would watch their siblings and cousins with big eyes and talk, very quietly, about subjects Bella had thought worthy. And before that even, there were the evenings of lace and gloves and enamel snuff-boxes, when Cappella Black ruled over the best minds of the wizarding world in her salon, right here in her ancient household, where they talked politics and society and the Dark Arts.

But all of that was long ago and far away. This sitting room not the center of the wizarding world any longer; muggleborns and petty officials never scuffle, most politely, of course, for you can't be allowed into polite society without manners, but still scuffle over those prestigious invites to evening parties at the Black household. Gone also are the cold polished people, and their brilliant children, and that quiet insidious talk and heartless laughter. There is only an old, old man, who's seen everything the world can throw at him, and survived it all, and now sits, remembering the golden moments of his life before a dying fire. But the room remembers the ghosts o bygone days, and remembers the echoes of music and laughter, long faded. I, too, remember, as I remember the reckless, foolish, and infinitely dear Sirius Black. I, Phineus Nigellus, remember. I will always remember.


End file.
